“Really, my dear aunt,” protested Miss Gibson, as she caught my eye with a look of comical alarm, “you will give Dr. Thorndyke a most erroneous impression.  I merely mentioned that I had intruded on him without notice and had been received with undeserved indulgence and consideration.”

“You didn’t put it quite in that way, my dear,” said Mrs. Hornby, “but I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

“We are highly gratified by Miss Gibson’s favourable report of us, whatever may have been the actual form of expression,” said Thorndyke, with a momentary glance at the younger lady which covered her with smiling confusion, “and we are deeply indebted to you for taking so much trouble to help us.”

“It is no trouble at all, but a great pleasure,” replied Mrs. Hornby; and she proceeded to enlarge on the matter until her remarks threatened, like the rippling circles produced by a falling stone, to spread out into infinity.  In the midst of this discourse Thorndyke placed chairs for the two ladies, and, leaning against the mantelpiece, fixed a stony gaze upon the small handbag that hung from Mrs. Hornby’s wrist.

“Is the ‘Thumbograph’ in your bag?” interrupted Miss Gibson, in response to this mute appeal.

“Of course it is, my dear Juliet,” replied the elder lady.  “You saw me put it in yourself.  What an odd girl you are.  Did you think I should have taken it out and put it somewhere else?  Not that these handbags are really very secure, you know, although I daresay they are safer than pockets, especially now that it is the fashion to have the pocket at the back.  Still, I have often thought how easy it would be for a thief or a pickpocket or some other dreadful creature of that kind, don’t you know, to make a snatch and—­in fact, the thing has actually happened.  Why, I knew a lady—­Mrs. Moggridge, you know, Juliet—­no, it wasn’t Mrs. Moggridge, that was another affair, it was Mrs.—­Mrs.—­dear me, how silly of me!—­now, what was her name?  Can’t you help me, Juliet?  You must surely remember the woman.  She used to visit a good deal at the Hawley-Johnsons’—­I think it was the Hawley-Johnsons’, or else it was those people, you know—­”

“Hadn’t you better give Dr. Thorndyke the ’Thumbograph’?” interrupted Miss Gibson.

“Why, of course, Juliet, dear.  What else did we come here for?” With a slightly injured expression, Mrs. Hornby opened the little bag and commenced, with the utmost deliberation, to turn out its contents on to the table.  These included a laced handkerchief, a purse, a card-case, a visiting list, a packet of papier poudre, and when she had laid the last-mentioned article on the table, she paused abruptly and gazed into Miss Gibson’s face with the air of one who has made a startling discovery.

“I remember the woman’s name,” she said in an impressive voice.  “It was Gudge—­Mrs. Gudge, the sister-in-law of—­”

Here Miss Gibson made an unceremonious dive into the open bag and fished out a tiny parcel wrapped in notepaper and secured with a silk thread.